


A Time Lord's understanding of human displays of significance

by sb_essebi



Series: Whouffaldi one-shots [15]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Making Love, Panic Attacks, character death but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sb_essebi/pseuds/sb_essebi
Summary: Prompt by anonymous: Could u write a smutty chapter where The Doctor thinks that Clara died but finds out he was lied to and shows Clara how much she means to him?





	A Time Lord's understanding of human displays of significance

**Author's Note:**

> I twisted the prompt a little. I hope you don't mind. Twelve thinks there's only one way to show Clara what she means to him, but she explains him that isn't true. Also I got carried away with the angst and basically Twelve is having a panic attack over the idea of having lost Clara.

When they tell him, he doesn't believe them.

"The ship was crashing, she stayed to help the evacuation."

That, he can believe. His Clara, always risking her life for others. For him.

"She didn't make it."

This, he won't accept.

They tell him that they're sorry. That there weren't any escape capsules. That he should leave, get over it, carry on. They are truly sorry, they say.

They're not. They're brusque as the say it, even for his standards. He has been rude to them, according to Clara.

 _"Stop being such a grumpy old owl to the people we're trying to help, it's counterproductive,"_  she's told him.

They leave him alone, but he doesn't leave. Instead he sits down, back against the door of the TARDIS, head leaning on the hard wood, concentrating on the buzzing of the electricity through the walls to overcome the silence. Everything is always so silent when Clara isn't around. The silence is like a void in his ribcage that he can't quite fill.

Before he knows it, he's hyperventilating. There's a painful pressure on his chest that won't let him breathe and seems to constrict his hearts, clenching around them. His mouth is open and he's breathing sharply, eyes bright, tears never quite falling. This version of him doesn't cry. Hardly shows emotion. He's been trying so hard to eradicate his emotions on Trenzalore, that regeneration took pity on him and finally gifted him -or cursed him- with this skill.

Useful skill, this one, during war. When you can't afford to dwell on the corpses of children you've watched grow up. Not so useful maybe when he just wanted Clara to know that he loved her more than life itself, but words didn't seem to say enough.

His hand clutches his chest. He can't breathe, can't get enough oxygen to his brain, to his hearts. He's going to die here. Fine by him. New life, new him. That way he can carry on. Maybe. Who's going to come out of this, he can't tell. A colder man. A worse man. It's always worse when he dies alone...

"Doctor? Doctor!"

His eyes pop open and this time he forgets about breathing altogether. Clara is standing there, less than 50 metres from him, a slightly puzzled look on her face, her orange space suit damaged and burnt in places but  _she's there_. She's  _alive_.

"What are you sitting there for?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

The Doctor barely realizes that he's gotten up and is running to her, grinning like the besotted fool he is, shouting her name. He catches her extremely confused expression just before he can lift her in his arms, hugging her, holding her tightly to his chest as he spins her around, hearts nearly exploding with sudden, unexpected joy. He buries his face in her shoulder and doesn't let go, squeezes her against his torso until his arms hurt out of digging into her ribs and she lets out a pained sound.

"Doct- hurting me-  _can't breathe_ -"

Her voice is a weak, shallow breath and it shakes him, makes him almost drop her, only to catch her again. Her legs end up wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck as his hands land around her waist and on her arse, supporting her and holding her to him like you would with a child, but he doesn't notice and she doesn't complain. He beams at her.

"My Clara. You're okay."

One of his hands shifts to the back of her head, pressing her urgently against him and getting her chin to rest on his shoulder and his chin to rest on hers, breathing in the clean scent of her hair with his eyes closed. She's alive. Alive and here, in his arms. He's afraid to let go now for fear of losing sight of her again. She's so small, after all. Easy mistake. He kisses the side of her head and feels the silky softness of her hair on his lips. They taste of shampoo but smell of smoke. He should ask what she's been through, but he hardly trusts his voice. He keeps whispering into her hair, however.

"Clara. My Clara."

" _Your Clara_  would like to know what's going on. Not that she's complaining," she laughs softly.

The sound of her laughter squeezes his hearts with a mixture of delight and dread. To think he could have heard that sound for the last time today… he momentarily pulls her tighter against his chest before looking into her eyes again. His voice is hoarse.

"Saw the ship crash. Thought you were-" He trails off.

She shakes her head.

"Escape capsule."

He pushes a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, then slowly strokes her cheek with the back of his hand, terrified she might be just an illusion.

" _They_  said there weren't any."

There are tears threatening to fill his eyes again. He's not sure why they're there.

She smiles. Her legs tighten their grip around his waist as one of her hands leaves his neck to take his hand.

"They lied."

She kisses his knuckles, then looks up at him as though to make sure he is comfortable with it. Her lips are so warm.

"Why would they do that?"

He's unable to move his hand from hers. Her grip is so gentle, but so real he needs to hang onto it to keep himself from breaking into a million pieces. He feels his breath rate increase again.

Clara laughs. Outright giggles.

"You called them 'insufferable pudding-brained Z-level life forms'. I'm not sure what the last bit means but they looked pretty offended."

"Oh."

His hearts are hammering against his ribcage again. Did she risk being left alone on an unknown planet because of his lack of manners? All air escapes from his lungs and it doesn't seem intentioned to return.

"Yes, oh." A pause. "Doctor, I know you don't really need to, but  _I_  need you to look at me and  _breathe_." She trusts his superior strength to hold her, and both her hands find his cheeks, taking his gaze to hers. She starts to draw slow, controlled breaths, and her eyes go so wide every time she inhales. He follows her rhythm, almost on instinct. "Yes. Good boy." His hearts slow down. Blood flows back properly to his brain. After long minutes, he can function at least partially, enough to process the thought that Clara could have died without him ever telling her what he feels for her. He doesn't know what it is he feels anyway. It's not love. Not only. It's respect, admiration and adoration. Affection, desire, need and addiction. It's plain and simple devotion, blind loyalty. It's the wish to keep her safe, happy, close, to never leave her side. He can't list everything Clara makes him feel. She makes him feel everything. "Don't be quiet. You scare me when you're quiet."

"I'll never stop talking again, then."

She rolls her eyes. "Why don't I ever shut up?"

He smirks. "Why indeed."

She smiles back. "Are you okay?"

He doesn't know. "I thought I had lost you."

She shakes her head, hands cupping his face gently.

"You haven't. I'm right here."

He lets his forehead sink against her shoulder again, concentrating on the beat of her heart. One of her hands caresses his hair comfortingly. She places a kiss in the soft mess of his curls and he looks back up at her at that.

There's concern in her eyes, she has never seen him so open after all. But there's something else, something he's been getting glimpses of ever since Christmas. A spark, a warmth, the hint of a promise that maybe –just maybe- he's not the only one whose hearts feel like they're going to burst with the intensity of all these feelings. There it is again, that confusing urge he has felt at times when looking at her. The urge, the very real and physical need to kiss her, his eyes dropping to her mouth and his breath getting caught in his throat. Only this time something is different. This time, the thought of losing her has brought him to his knees, both literally and figuratively, both physically and emotionally, and he can't keep himself standing. So he falls. He falls like you fall into bed after 48 hours awake, heavy and only half-consciously, not sure if you're really there or if you fainted halfway through the corridor and this is nothing more than a dream.

His lips touch hers, so softly at first, questioning silently. Her hand settles at the back of his head and she pulls him closer, pleading, kisses him more firmly and makes sure he falls fully, not a cell of his body left holding onto his insecurities. He follows and obeys, as he always does with her, quickly pressing his lips on hers again, repeatedly, head tilted slightly, his nose poking into her cheek. Her lips are soft and smooth, her small intakes of breath between every brush of lips sending shivers down his spine and warmth in his blood.

He opens his mouth to say something, but it must be something Clara doesn't want to hear because she silences him with her tongue in his mouth. He feels heat and need and responds eagerly to her kiss, holding her more tightly against his body. She's as light as a feather to him, but he can hardly stand as his knees go suddenly weak when she kisses him deeply as though her life depended on it and a jolt of electricity runs down his spine.

He breaks the contact, afraid to let her fall, reluctantly loosening his grip on her, letting her on her feet as delicately as possible. She puts her arms around him and pulls him closer with such concern and tenderness even his last barrier falls and he hands himself over entirely to her, falling on his knees again and burying his head against her chest, letting the tears fall at long last, pressing kisses on the fabric before him and lacing his arms tight around her waist.

He has thought Clara wouldn't, would never take all of him, never accept his every mistake and every weakness, but here she is holding him close, caressing his hair and kissing the top of his head, let him shake the shock out of his body through sobs and tears with little words in between, maybe only one word.

"Clara.  _Clara._ "

"It's fine. You're fine. I'm right here. Tell me. Tell me what you need."

"I need- I need-" She cups his face and forces him to look up at her, his vision blurred with tears. All the feelings he has bottled up in the last months are flowing out like a river, but he can't get his mouth to work, can't get his words to match his thoughts, he feels like he's going to choke on the words but he needs her to know, he needs to show her, needs to show her how much she means to him. He swallows, hard. "Clara, I-"

He tries, but he can't get it out. She looks at him sweetly, but not condescendingly, caresses his hair.

"It's almost night. Let's go home."

"Home?"

"TARDIS."

"Yes?" he asks, and what he means is if she's sure that the TARDIS is her home too now. Somehow, he thinks Clara understands this is what he's asking.

She nods firmly and pulls him to his feet.

Key in the lock, the doors opening, Clara pushing him somewhere. He's not sure where. He's in such a state of mind, he feels drained of all his energy. He's only following Clara's lead, letting her drive him. It's like he's recharging, like everything he's been repressing suddenly breaking free has exhausted his batteries, and surprisingly Clara seems to understand. She's had wobbles before, she's been scared, but now she's here, letting him rely fully, solely on her.

Her bedroom, her bed, the sound of the straps and zips of her spacesuit being undone. She's in her underwear, stripping him of his coat, his shirt, leaving his chest exposed, putting him to bed. She curls up behind him, her arms around his body, her legs entangled with his, spoons him even though she's little more than half him and presses her head into the back of his neck, and he feels strangely protected, safe. How does she do that, a small thing like her? Making him feel like everything will be okay, like everything has been cared for, taken care of. Making him feel  _loved_.

"Clara, I-"

"Shh. I know," she interrupts. "It's okay. I know." She pauses for a while. Her next words are only whispered, quietly, into his hair, only for him to hear. "I love you."

He exhales weakly. He has longed for those words, for an explicit statement of her feelings, since he can't read them at all in this incarnation, but after all he knew already. So much she has done to show him, without saying the words. Her arms tighten around him and her hands slide to his chest, over his hearts. He covers her hands with his and presses them there, letting her feel his hearts hammering as he buries his face into the pillow. He needs to show her too.

"Let me make love to you," he murmurs, and he feels Clara smile against his skin at that.

"Are you sure?"

"Would you want me to?"

"Yes." There's a trembling in her voice and an irregularity in her heartbeat as she says it, as though she's faulty, as though he's infecting her with this absurd impossibility to talk. He tries to turn in her arms, but she blocks him. "Easy there, old man." More pausing, for a shorter time now. "I want you to, but you don't need to."

"But I- I need to show you-" His voice seems to be slowly working again. "I love you."

"You've shown me already, you daft alien. No one breaks down like that for- if not for-  _God_ , I had no idea you were keeping so much bottled up. You don't need to show me anything. That's not what you do to show- not really… It doesn't… it doesn't work like that."

"No?"

A small laugh. "No. It's just- something you want. You… you don't have to prove anything to anyone, okay? Especially not to me." Clara shifts a little behind him, takes a shuddering breath. "Let me make love to you."

He's so astonished he doesn't answer at all, busy thinking. This is his problem in this life, that he has lost most of his understanding of how the human mind works. Especially feelings. And love. Love deserves a mention of its own. Not that he has ever been excellent at it, but he's never been so blatantly wrong either.

Warm, soft lips on his skin, bringing him back to reality. He leans in, seeking more contact. Chaste kisses, on his neck where his hair shortens and then disappears.

"God, please say yes," she utters.

He nods vigorously, again unsure of how to speak an answer that seems so simple to her, and Clara's fingers slip away from his hands and draw circles on his stomach, delicately, teasing, almost tickling him, insisting at the areas that make his muscles contract and his body squirm. Only lips at first on the top of his spine and on his shoulders, short but unhurried kisses. Slower kisses then, her mouth open, her tongue tasting his skin, following the line of his spine, making him gasp almost unnoticeably as her hands explore his body more fully, tracing his cleavage, his biceps, his forearms, stopping to play with his hair there, making him hiss softly with light pain.

More hisses, of pleasure, when he can feel Clara's smile in her kisses up his back and she moves her hands, one to tease his nipples and one to palm the zipper of his trousers. His cheeks itch and a jolt of arousal spreads through his nerves. It seems she's trying to have him react as loudly as possible, and he could swear he hears her whisper a word of satisfaction and triumph after she draws the first clearly audible sound from him, making him moan with unexpected pleasure when she bites gently at the junction of his neck and shoulder.

She proceeds to place more bites along his shoulders and neck, sucking lightly at his skin, leaving little marks on him, labelling him as hers for everyone to see, making more moans and "Clara"s escape his lips while one of her hands starts playfully rubbing against his trousers, at his crotch, and the other caressing his inner thigh, where his skin is most sensitive. He hardens just a little too quickly and parts his legs for her as much as the tight confines of his trousers allow him, leaving Clara room to do as she pleases.

A small " _Oh_." decides to fall from his lips on its own accord when both of Clara's hands deftly work at the button and zipper of his trousers and she dips her right hand past his underwear, touching him so very gently it's almost painful and he has to,  _just has to_  cry out for her. Her breath is hot on his back and her voice is low, husky.

"That's it. Tell me what you like."

She strokes him slowly but more firmly, causing sparks of pleasure and sharp intakes of breath, his hands clutching his pillow as he tilts his head to the side and buries his nose into it. He doesn't know what he likes. No one has ever touched him like this in this body and it's… intense. He's programmed to fit for her, he's custom-made for Clara Oswald and no one else. Her hand wrapped around him feels like the finest silk and blazing lava on his skin, he barely registers her other hand pulling his trousers and pants down his legs until she's cupping his arse and thoroughly exploring his thighs and lower back with slightly frantic curiosity. That adds to the pleasure, the idea of her mapping out every inch of him, and he groans quietly in response.

Clara smiles in between more insistent kisses along his spine that hardly let him think. He's shamefully sensitive there and she clearly understands it too well, suddenly deciding to try timing a long lick up the line of his spine with the motion of her hand sliding downward around his cock and  _that_.  _Oh_.  _That_  has him moan just so, long and shuddering and deep in his throat, has his breath hitch and his stomach feel like it's flipping in a way he's pretty sure is not scientifically possible.

" _Clara_. I'm- I won't-"

"Last?"

He nods forcefully and she shifts slightly behind him, as though considering her options, then experimentally pumps him a little faster, flicking her thumb at the tip, leaving him grabbing at her wrist to keep her in place and thrusting helplessly and all too eagerly in her hand, pre-come wetting her fingers.

"God, that's-" she hesitates. "Lay on your back. God, I want to see your face."

She distances herself from him to let him do as he's told, and as soon as he's on his back she has got rid of her underwear and is straddling him, looking down at him.

"God," she breathes out. "You're blushing. Look at you. You're beautiful."

She cups his face and caresses his hair, lost in him. He feels like he's exploding with the need for- for what exactly he's not sure. For Clara, for more of her. For the first time a stray thought crosses his mind and he doesn't repress it, revelling in it instead: he wonders what it would feel like to be inside her, the heat of her body around his. That's what he wants. Her. Just- Clara. He settles his hands at her hips somehow, her skin is soft and smooth and he needs her closer.

"I- Clara. I want you."

She smiles outright blissfully. "That's it. That's perfect.  _That's_  how it works. That's it."

She moves over him, guides him, lets him fill her. It's everything. It's an explosion of heat around him, of pressure inside him. Humans are so unbelievably hot, he's not sure how they remain clothed 99% of the time. It's a fleeting consideration, lost in the knowledge that this is Clara all around him, clinging to his arms with her hands firm on his, her thighs shuddering against his. She moves fast, almost desperately, envelopes him in a haze of pleasure and heat.

"Arms. Move."

She urges him to lift her, up and down on his cock, harder, faster. His eyes open to watch her lose herself in the feel of him, head thrown back, teeth tormenting her lower lip. Her fingers find her clit and she clenches hard around him, calls out his name, makes him growl with a kind of possessive need for her to repeat that, his name on her lips  _like that_ , filled with every emotion he wants to hear – none of which he can identify.

He's sweating and breathing fast beneath her, but not as much as she is. The idea touches him, that he should maybe tell her that she doesn't need to prove anything to him, either, but then she stills and her nails dig into his skin, she orgasms around him so suddenly, in a long, trembling wave, pulls him over the edge with her with such force every thought in his mind is forgotten, replaced with abrupt clarity.

This, her body limp in her arms and his grateful kisses on the top of her head, don't have to mean anything, aren't proof of anything but the pent up pressure. To show her what she means to him he only needs a look of his eyes, or tears rolling down his cheeks or the way he has held her earlier, and she only needs to look at him like this, her head on his chest and her eyes on his like the only thing worth watching, to show him that he means everything to her, too.


End file.
